


a cold breeze, a warm sea

by extra kanin (gracon_bacon)



Series: Requested Works [9]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Intercourse, Getting Together, Inebriated Sex, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mutual Masturbation, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 01:41:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22795705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracon_bacon/pseuds/extra%20kanin
Summary: When you have only two days off in a month, you make the most of it.For lack of anything better to do during his rare vacation, Hanzo decides to go to a remote island with McCree.It's a day he will never forget.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Series: Requested Works [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1462471
Comments: 3
Kudos: 152





	a cold breeze, a warm sea

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Chisie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chisie/gifts).



> This fic was requested by the lovely chisie, who helped me out of a rough spot and totally deserves all the love in the world (´▽`ʃ💟ƪ) 
> 
> Thank you so much, chi! I hope you'll enjoy this fic as much as I loved writing it!!
> 
> 💌💌💌
> 
> If you'd like to request a fic, you may check my [twitter](https://twitter.com/galayugmagay/status/1229962454244806656?s=20) for request info (✿◡‿◡)

“You didn’t say we were going to the beach.”

“Well, I figured, with you bein’ a city boy and me a desert eagle, a beach would be a nice change of pace.”

Hanzo hums, unconvinced about this whole excursion. He’d only come here because he hadn’t been willing to stay in Gibraltar any longer. After a whole month of missions, they’re having their first weekend off, and the base had become devoid of life. Even Soldier 76, who usually stays at the base and makes for good — if silent — company, had packed his bags and disappeared without a word. Just when Hanzo had thought he would be left to his own devices, McCree, who hadn’t left yet, had invited him to a small rest house he’d booked for a short vacation.

So a short jet trip and an hour-long yacht ride later, they’re here on a remote island in the Pacific, with only each other and the fishes for company. The blistering heat burns Hanzo’s cheeks, whereas McCree only seems to glow from it. Nonetheless, he admits that McCree chose well, albeit a little extravagantly. A long coastline of fine white sand hugs the serene sea ahead of them. The bungalow itself is of decent quality, clearly well-maintained. It is, however, quite odd that McCree would book this all for himself. “I was under the impression that we were all paid the same wages in Overwatch.”

“I called in some favors,” McCree drawls and winks at him. “Just because I look rugged don’t mean I got no friends in high places, pardner.”

Hanzo shrugs. Having been born into opulence, the disgraced Shimada is quite aware that lending a private island for a few days is merely a drop in a bucket for the wealthy. Granted a modicum of trust — and a fair bit of charm that McCree clearly possesses — it’s not too much of a surprise anymore. Still quite impressive though, Hanzo will give him that. Unwilling to suffer the heat any longer, Hanzo strips down to his underwear — a generic pair of black boxer shorts issued to everyone on Overwatch — and makes his way to the rest house. He’s already reached the foyer when he realizes his companion isn’t following him, so he turns back and raises a brow at the sight of McCree, face slack and mouth ajar, still standing at the same spot of sand where Hanzo left him. “Too much exposure to the sun will age you, McCree.”

McCree twitches for a moment before letting out a low chuckle as he finally moves. “Well, unlike you I was _made_ for sun and sand, Hanzo.”

“That would explain the crow’s feet,” Hanzo ribs back without any heat.

The audible gasp McCree makes, paired with fake indignance, only makes Hanzo even more amused. He will give McCree this: the man makes for good — probably even great — company. Before Hanzo had joined Overwatch, he had been selectively mute, speaking only when necessary and spending his missions in utter silence as he had been trained to do. But one does not run multiple missions with Overwatch’s resident gunslinger without learning how to banter, and with how they are both the types to hide in alleys and sit in dark corners waiting for their targets…

Well, it’s safe to say that Hanzo actually enjoys McCree. Just how much is something he’d rather not think about now if he wishes to keep this vacation a pleasant one. When they enter the bungalow, it’s surprisingly less lavish than its outside appearance. There’s a large, vacant space devoid of furniture or furnishings — what had been the living room, perhaps? — and an open-air hallway that leads to the rest of the house. Even then, there’s only a large kitchen and a door that leads to the master’s bedroom. The poor design choice rankles the _Young Master_ in Hanzo, but he perishes the thought with nary a word. 

_Surely the bedroom must be better_ , he thinks, only to open the door and audibly groan.

“Well,” McCree’s gruff voice from behind him drawls, “looks like there’s only one bed.”

Indeed, there is only one bed. A large, king-sized bed with fresh and clearly high-thread-count sheets — but there’s still only one of it. Hanzo has not shared a bed with another person in _decades_.

His discomfort must be clear to McCree, who gamely offers, “You take the bed, Han. I’m good with the hammock on the porch.”

 _Says the man who complains about his back whenever we have to do stakeouts_ , Hanzo thinks with a grimace. “It is a big bed. We can share.”

McCree stares at him a moment too long with an unreadable look but just as quickly shrugs, moving to the bed and pulling his shirt off without warning. “Well, if you don’t mind me bein’ cuddly, I’m takin’ the left side.”

“Right,” Hanzo replies dumbly, momentarily stunned by the sight of golden skin before snapping out of it. He busies himself with setting his meager belongings in order: folding the clothes he’d shed earlier, hanging his change of clothes at the large closet, and even checking his bag for the standard-issue emergency box that holds supplies and a pulse gun. From the corner of his eyes, he sees McCree doing the same, and it’s rather impressive that the gunslinger hadn’t brought Peacemaker. Then again, Hanzo left Storm Bow behind too; it’s not like they’re impotent without their main weapons in hand. They’re too experienced a pair of vagrants for that.

Then, much to Hanzo’s surprise, McCree jumps on the bed, moaning loudly as the springs catch his weight. The man curls up and falls asleep in an instant, snoring loudly within a few moments as if the world could wait until he wakes. Still, weary as he may be, Hanzo’s not prepared to share a bed with McCree yet. Perhaps they can take shifts. Or Hanzo can take the hammock.

‘Who am I trying to fool here?’ Hanzo tamps down his thoughts and awkwardly lies down on his side of the bed, staring up at the ceiling with as blank a mind as he can muster. It’s not a hardship too, not when he truly is exhausted, both from their mission and the trip. And this island is safe. The house isn’t too bad. The bed sinks under him so sinfully, a luxury he hasn’t had in…

He closes his eyes, telling himself he’ll only rest them for a few minutes.

When Hanzo stirs awake, the room is already awash with the tint of the setting sun.

McCree’s side is empty, but still a bit warm, and in a rare moment of weakness, Hanzo rolls to that side of the bed, breathing in the distinct scent of sage and cigar that he’s learned to associate with McCree. Perhaps it says a lot about him that he enjoys the man’s scent, even at those times when they’d been far too long without a proper shower. As the heir to the Shimada Gumi, it was a necessity for Hanzo to strengthen his sense of smell, and though the track of it is faint on the sheets, Hanzo breathes it in all the same, settling a warmth in his stomach that he often ignores.

When he hears some stirring outside, he jumps up off the bed in an instant, sleeplessness all but dissipated as he pushes away the thoughts he shouldn’t be having right now out of respect for his friend. He finds McCree sitting on a patch of sand, leisurely letting the waves lick his feet as the sun starts its descent into the horizon. There’s a cooler full of an assortment of alcohol by his side, and even from here Hanzo can see a bottle of sake standing perilously above all the others. Upon close inspection, it’s the kind he often drank as a young man — the kind that hasn’t graced his tongue for a long while now. “I would think your friend a connoisseur had they not put this gem in a _cooler_.”

“Well, my friend may have expensive tastes, but I never said he had _taste_ ,” McCree chuckles out, taking a swig from his own bottle of…

“Are you drinking the most expensive bottle of whiskey straight from the bottle?”

This time, McCree laughs from his belly and puts the bottle down. “Not all of us were raised sophisticated, darlin’.” Then he lifts the bottle up close to Hanzo. “Fancy a swig?”

Hanzo sighs but takes the bottle anyway, lifting it up to his lips and letting the alcohol flow onto his tongue. The full taste of charred wood makes him shiver, biting back a grimace at its strong flavor before he hands it back to a laughing McCree. When McCree takes another swig of it too, Hanzo realizes he's just _shared_ a bottle with McCree, sending a different kind of shiver down his spine. He couldn’t help but watch the shadows dance on the other man’s face, the orange light only serving to accentuate the man’s skin. There is beauty even in the rugged cheeks and lines of age — Hanzo would even admit that it only makes McCree even more attractive. Then again, Hanzo has always preferred…

Warm brown eyes turn and stare up at him, catching him in its gaze. There is something unreadable behind McCree’s eyes, filling Hanzo with an odd kind of discomfort — awkwardness — as he stares back into them. Searching, waiting…

But the moment passes with nary a word. The sun sinks into the sea, and McCree finally blinks and looks away. Hanzo fidgets on his feet, wanting to say something to break the suddenly stifling air, but his heart is frantically hammering in his chest, leaving him mute. ‘What now?’

McCree gets up with a groan and stretches his body before looking back at Hanzo. “So, d’you know how to cook?”

It turns out they both know only the basics, so they help themselves to the well-stocked refrigerator and figure out what they can both collectively make. In the end, they settle with making grilled fish tacos, with Hanzo preparing the fish and McCree preparing the rest. Hanzo had forgotten how therapeutic it was to gut and scale fish; though he had trouble at first, muscle memory dictated what he needed to do. When McCree returns to the kitchen, the sink is a mess of blood and guts while Hanzo’s at the counter meticulously filleting the cleaned fish. “Wow, this looks like a murder scene right here.” Then he sniffs and blanches. “I didn’t know fish could smell that bad…”

“Spearing and cleaning fish was one of the few skills I was required to learn despite my status,” Hanzo explains as he runs the knife along the fish’s belly. “Hunting and cooking fish requires patience and discipline. Move too fast, and the fish escapes your grasp. Cook too long, and the fish loses all its nutrients.” 

“Well, all I learned was making wraps. Was a bit too much a rebel growin’ up to learn all the family recipes,” McCree mumbles with a tinge of remorse. “But the past is the past. At least I’ll learn by watching’ you, right?”

Hanzo finally fillets the fish, picking out some stray bones before turning to McCree. “Perhaps you would like to try it with your own hands?”

“I…” McCree’s eyes widened in surprise, glancing between Hanzo and the leftover fish, before breaking out into a huge grin. “You gonna teach me?”

Hanzo beckons McCree over with a smile, handing the knife to the man and replacing the fish he’d just filleted with a whole new one. Then he goes behind McCree and takes the man’s hands in his, carefully guiding them into the proper position. “First, you press on top of the fish to keep everything in place.”

McCree does as said with some hesitation. “And the knife?”

Realizing he’ll have to see what McCree’s doing, Hanzo tiptoes and lightly rests his head on McCree’s shoulder, only now realizing that his chest is flush against the man’s warm back. Still, he guides McCree’s rough hand, piercing the fish at the right spot before sliding the knife along its belly, slowly guiding it upwards when they reach the tail. When the knife finally leaves the fish, Hanzo uses his own hand to flip the fillet then gently presses his fingers on the white meat. “Now you must feel around the flesh to check if there are bones. This fish does not have many, but it is better to be thorough than to regret it during dinner.”

“Ah,” McCree says a little dumbly, “Ever gotten boned?”

“Once or twice, as a child. A banana or two will help it go down your throat,” Hanzo replies without thought, but when he notices McCree’s ears going red, he _realizes_ what he’d just said and quickly lets go of the man, creating some space between them before he segues. “Would you like to work on the rest of dinner while I continue with the fish?”

His awkwardness must be palpable — McCree only makes a small chuckle before tapping him on the arm. “Not a problem, Han. You go grill that fish, I’ll go deal with the _pico de gallo_ and settin’ up.”

Somehow, that comforting smile is enough for Hanzo to loosen up. He returns to filleting the rest of the fish, absently noting how much warmer the knife’s handle is after McCree used it, and works in relative silence as McCree works on the other kitchen island. Mindless chatter, courtesy of the other man, clears the odd tension in the room, and soon enough Hanzo even starts talking again. It’s nothing special — just reminiscing about family dinners and their childhoods. But these are memories that Hanzo holds dear, and the fact that he can talk about them with McCree…

The pleasant air lasts well into dinner as they sit on the beach, a large tray of wraps and fish in front of them. The food is good — far better than both of them expected, for two people who “don’t know how to cook” — and the alcohol flows just as freely, warming them as the night grows colder. Perhaps it’s the romantic setting, or the alcohol loosening his tongue, but Hanzo surprises himself when he asks, “Have you brought anyone else here before?”

“Mhm? You’re a curious one, aren’t ya?” McCree grins before tossing an empty bottle of beer at the stack between them. “A date or two. But not since returning to Overwatch. Can’t really sit at a bar and pick anyone up when you’re too busy saving the world, huh?”

Hanzo hums into his bottle too, taking a long drink from it as he mulls over what to say. He can’t deny he’s a little let down. McCree had invited him here as an afterthought, so for this to be entirely platonic shouldn't disappoint him so much. Yet…

“What about you? Ever brought a date to your own private island too?” McCree asks with curiosity. “I knew you looked a bit disappointed at how this island looks, so I’m pretty sure you’ve got a better one of your own.”

“A private island? Yes.” Hanzo answers with a slight slur. “But I have never gone on a date, other than _omiai_ …”

McCree grimaces and sighs. “I would say you’re missin’ out, but that’ll be the pot callin’ the kettle black. What’s the use of batting for both teams if ya end up alone anyway?”

“Both teams? Ah…Like Genji?” A loaded question.

“Yep. Still a problem of yours?”

This time, Hanzo violently shakes his head. “It was never a problem. Not for Genji nor for you. I was merely…”

The wan smile McCree sends him only makes Hanzo feel raw. Had Genji not _known_? His blood runs cold at the realization that he’d hidden his own self for years, that he’s been so alone this whole time—- Hanzo startles when a warm hand braces his shoulder, and when he looks up, there’s an apologetic look on McCree’s face. “Hey, sorry about that. You don’t need to say any more if you’re uncomfortable with it, okay?

“I…Thank you,” he sighs and looks down at the sand beneath his feet. He can make a choice now. Stay the way he is, stay _alone_ , keeping his secrets close to his heart, or open the floodgates and allow someone — even just McCree — inside. Never before has he felt the dire need to say it out loud to someone else.

Would it hurt, sharing a secret he’s unknowingly hidden for decades? Or would it be a relief?

Hanzo stares up ahead at the waves gently caressing the shore as he speaks. “I envied Genji. Our father gave him all the freedom while I was saddled with countless responsibilities. He could see whoever he wanted, go wherever he pleased, while I had little choice but to stay at home and entertain the women the elders would send my way.

“I had shown no interest in them, and when the elders had realized…” Hanzo pulls his legs close to his chest, suddenly feeling the cold bite of the sea breeze. “It was unbecoming of both Shimada heirs to prefer the eel over the cave, so I learned to hide it even from Genji. After Shimada Gumi…”

A pregnant silence reigns over them until McCree breaks it. “No time for screwin’ around when you got a lifelong mission, huh?”

“Yes…” Hanzo trails off, taking another bottle of beer and drinking from it. He’d just revealed a secret he hadn’t known he’d kept all his life, and to finally let it out...is both comforting and anticlimactic at the same time. He throws his head back, finishing the bottle in one go, before turning to the gunslinger with a small smile. “I see why Genji has a high opinion of you, McCree..”

McCree’s eyes widen before they soften into a smile. “That’s high praise comin’ from you, Han. And I promise I won’t tell anyone unless you want me to. This cowboy ain’t the type to kiss and tell.”

‘That would require you to kiss me first,’ Hanzo nearly says, but he puts the lid on it before he could. It’s too late though; he can feel the stirrings of arousal pool in his groin, one that will be impossible to hide in his boxer shorts. He shifts on his seat, saying with a clipped tone, “We shouldn’t waste the beach while we are here.”

His companion hums, then, in a suspiciously jovial tone, “Well, since we’re on a _private_ beach, what say you to skinny dippin’?”

“Skinny— Oh.” Now Hanzo _really_ flushes up. “Only if you are already in the water.”

McCree’s laugh only makes him feel more self-conscious. Then, without aplomb, the American stands up with a wobble and _strips_. Right in front of Hanzo.

‘Oh, indeed…’ Hanzo stares at the _gargantuan_ manhood hanging between McCree’s legs and quickly snaps his thighs shut, forcing his own growing hardness down. It only gets worse when McCree languidly walks into the sea, the moonlight painting the grooves of his body. Only when McCree’s far enough does Hanzo strip and follow the man into the shimmering waters. He shivers as the warm waters lick over his cold skin, and when he’s deep enough, he lowers himself on his hunches, sighing as his body finally acclimates to the temperature. He closes his eyes and lets the calm breeze and gentle waves send him into a light trance, allowing the sea to wash away a whole month’s worth of stress and aches.

He’s relaxed enough that he pays no mind to the feeling of water pushing against him — only to sputter when thick arms wrap around him and bodily pull him down into the dark waters. He can hear McCree laughing behind him as he comes up for air, body fully drenched in seawater and furiously blowing his nose and shaking his head. “McCree!”

The man has the gall to laugh even louder and go back underwater. This time, Hanzo’s prepared for it: he swims down too, using his senses to know where McCree is, and lunges for the man, locking McCree’s legs with his arms and grinning as McCree shakes him off. McCree yanks him back into the water, and it’s _on_. They wrestle and pull each other in the water, filling the air with boisterous laughter and loud splashing. 

Hanzo can’t remember when he’d last felt so young and _free_. But roughhousing is for young men, and soon they both tire, panting loudly as they catch their breaths. McCree’s behind him, resting an arm on Hanzo’s shoulder as they chuckle even through their harsh breaths. Only then does Hanzo realize how _firm_ and _warm_ McCree feels against him…

And… ‘Is that…’

He swallows when he feels McCree’s hardness brush against his hip, and just like that, his own cock rises to attention too. McCree’s harsh breaths turn to long, deep ones, and the air around them turns heated with unspoken sexual tension. Here is a man, the same man who has been haunting his waking dreams, holding him close and leaning onto him even when he knows how Hanzo _yearns_. In a hushed yet thick voice: “McCree…”

“Call me Jesse,” McCree’s warm breath blows over his ear, sending a full-body shiver over him, and _oh—_ The man’s burning cock bumps against his thigh, making both of them groan out. “Han—”

“Jesse—”

A clipped groan is the only warning he gets before McCree turns him around and presses their bodies flush against each other. McCree’s pupils are blown wide with arousal, and lust, and desperation as he gasps, “Say my name again.”

“ _Jesse—”_

He’s engulfed by the force of Jesse’s hungry kiss, and he can do nothing but _succumb_ to it. He leans into Jesse’s grip, rolling his body against Jesse’s and moaning as static erupts where their bodies touch. He moans into the kiss as Jesse’s hands cup his chest, squeezing and pulling hard on Hanzo’s ample chest. Stars burst behind his eyes as Jesse’s cock, much thicker and longer than his, makes its home at the crook of his hip, rubbing against his own cock and leaking warm precum on their bellies.

But it is also Jesse who stops the kiss and looks down at Hanzo, a question in his eyes. Now it’s Hanzo who pleads, “Inside, Jesse, please…”

“Fuck, Han,” Jesse shivers and pulls away from him, taking him by the arm and leading him back to shore. They stumble into the bungalow, kissing each other senseless at every spare moment, never letting go of each other even as they bump into door jambs and slam each other against the walls. Hanzo has never been more thankful for the lack of furniture — they get to the bedroom without breaking anything, and when he and Jesse crash into the bed, there’s nothing coming between them anymore.

It’s Hanzo who leans in for another kiss, eager to get his fill and more, groaning into Jesse’s lips as the other man slowly crawls on top of him. Unlike before, their pace is more languid — less a desperate liplock and more of a slow dance. Arousal still simmers underneath his skin, but he loves this nonetheless: slow but passionate kisses that make him gasp for air, long strokes on his body, mapping out spots he hadn’t known would make him buck up for _more_ , and…

He cries out into Jesse’s mouth as the man _finally_ touches his cock, those rough, calloused fingers wrapping around his thickness and pumping him with purpose. For the first time in _decades_ , Hanzo feels like a young man again, finding himself teetering at the precipice so quickly. If he doesn’t stop Jesse now — 

Jesse curses under his breath and sits up, revealing his own painfully hard cock. Veins bulging under dark skin, the tip purpling like it’s about to come too… Hanzo reaches down for it, pressing his fingertips into the slit, and Jesse _howls_.

“Fuck, Han, I’m not gonna last here—”

Still caressing Jesse’s cock, Hanzo rasps out, “Inside me. Just the tip. _Please_ , Jesse.”

All grace lost, Jesse fumbles as he lifts Hanzo’s thighs up, pressing the head of his cock against the furls of Hanzo’s hole. Jesse’s dripping so much that the tip goes in with barely any trouble, the pressure making Hanzo’s eyes roll back in a mix of pleasure and pain. The hand pumping his cock stills for a moment, squeezing _hard_ on his swollen flesh —

Hanzo comes just as Jesse spills inside him, the man’s come filling his insides with a hot wetness that he’d craved for _months_.

The last thing Hanzo remembers is Jesse pulling out, then the gush of come leaking out of his hole. Jesse cursing, calling out his name…

…

When he wakes, it is already morning.

Hanzo grimaces as he opens his eyes, head pounding with a slight headache as he glares at the morning sun. He must have slept with his hair wet; it always gives him the worst— 

Then he remembers _last night_. He frantically sits up, wincing at the slight ache in his ass, only to find that he’s alone.

Jesse isn’t here.

His heart sinks in his chest as anger, betrayal, and shame wash over him. Was he too inexperienced? Too eager? Too soon? He fists the sheets as a few tears escape his eyes, dreading coming face to face with McCree later—

Then the bedroom door opens. “Good morning, sunshine— Hanzo?”

Hanzo quickly blinks away his tears, but it’s too late. A still-naked McCree, bringing a tray full of breakfast food and drinks, promptly sets the tray down at the nightstand and sits beside him on the bed.

“Darlin’, are you okay? Was it about last night? Was it good for you? Because I swear it was for me, but a man’s still gotta ask…”

Hanzo makes a sound of disbelief. “It was good. _Better_ than good, McCree.”

“Ouch,” Jesse fakes a wounded sound. “Back to last names now, huh? And I thought we shared somethin’ special here…”

This time, Hanzo can’t help but laugh. Worries disappearing into thin air, he leans up to kiss Jesse without warning, morning breath be damned. When he feels Jesse smile into his mouth, he already knows he won’t mind waking up to this every day.

A few more kisses later, Jesse pulls away from him with great difficulty, chuckling at Hanzo’s displeased face. “Well, as much as I’d love to _eat_ you right now, I didn’t get up the ass crack o’ dawn to make you breakfast in bed for nothin’. And I swear, if there’s anything I’m good at, it’s a _mean_ country breakfast.”


End file.
